  Though beauty’s tress be strayed, ’tis beauteous still: Though her bright glance should wander, though it err & wound me, it shall be forgiven her; Yea, lov’d is the BelovÉd though she kill. Though should love’s light’ning ravage & consume Faith’s harvest, & the garner of the wise, Reproach not nor upbraid her: those bright eyes Have right all to destroy, that all illume. Betwixt love’s roses should no sharpness be: Though not uncruel, not unblameworthy Wast thou, O sweet Love, blame thou only my Blemish, let not remorse endolour thee. Yea, censure not afflicting love: thy part Is but forgiveness, O long-patient heart!
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